


Reborn

by sergeant_angel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Azor Ahai, F/M, Lightbringer, R plus L equals J, i really love me some nissa nissa/lightbringer/azor ahai dynamics and theories, melisandre needs to Not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 22:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12308787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_angel/pseuds/sergeant_angel
Summary: "A hundred days and a hundred nights he labored on the third blade, and as it glowed white-hot in the sacred fires, he summoned his wife. 'Nissa Nissa,' he said to her, for that was her name, 'bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world.' She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart."Prophecy is a tricky thing, but Lightbringer is necessary for the battle to come, or so Melisandre would have you believe.Or, the Red God asks too much, this time.





	Reborn

**Author's Note:**

"I was mistaken, Your Grace," Melisandre stands near the forge. "I thought Stannis was the prince who was promised, and I was wrong. I looked to the flames again and saw truth. _You_ are Azor Ahai reborn, and _you_ must wield Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes." 

Jon looks from Melisandre to Daenerys. It's unclear which of them she is talking to, who she now thinks is Azor Ahai. 

"You have been mistaken in your prophecies before," Jon reminds her. "You thought Stannis was the prince who was promised." 

"And I was wrong," Melisandre repeats. "But not now." 

"And how is this time different from Stannis?" Arya's hand rests on Needle's hilt, a quiet warning. "I don't hold much stock in prophecies." 

"Isn't your brother a greenseer?" Daenerys tilts her head in that way she has, her pale purple eyes flashing. The Dragon Queen doesn't trust Arya and more than Arya trusts Daenerys. The women respect each other, that much is true. But the hours Jon spends in Arya's company—sparring, riding, talking about all that has happened since they last saw one another—are later reclaimed with interest by Daenerys. They speak of their childhoods, of strategy, of the Targaryen legacy Jon feels no part of. _Bl_ _ood_ _of the dragon_ , she calls him, her hands gentle on his face. There is something protective, almost proprietary as she calls him Aegon and draws him away from the Starks, Arya in particular.  

Daenerys doesn't like when he reminds her he is just as much a direwolf as a dragon. 

"Green dreams are different." 

"Green dreams are the work of the Other, whose name may not be spoken." Melisandre's voice is cutting as she glares at Arya, who shrugs. Arya seems to hold Melisandre in some strange mixture of esteem and contempt, due in no small part to the Red Woman's work in bringing Jon back from the dead. 

"Who says it is an actual sword?" Arya says warily, shifting her feet to keep Melisandre in front of her at all times. "Ser Davos was forged three times in salt and flame and death. And red prophets in Braavos claim Daenerys is Azor Ahai reborn." 

Melisandre's eyes burn red, the ruby at her throat reflecting flames back at them. Only for a moment, though, before she inclines her head to Arya. "Indeed, Princess. Prophecies are fickle things. But we have Lightbringer here," she gestures to the forge, and then to the royals assembled in front of her, "and Azor Ahai here." 

Her eyes linger on Daenerys. Jon sees it; Arya sees it too.  

"Go on, _Mhysa_. Draw the sword." 

"And whose heart shall I plunge it into, to temper the blade?" Daenerys says, scorn in her voice as she steps back. "I need no sword. Three children I have, born from flame. _They_ are Lightbringer." 

"I am sorry, my Queen. A sword is a sword." And with that, Melisandre draws Lightbringer from the forge. 

Arya puts her body between Jon and the red-hot sword, and Jon knows so many things then, knows them with such a clarity it is startling. _What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister?_  

He knows that as much as he cares for Daenerys, his heart will always belong to Arya. 

He knows that Melisandre knows this. She has known this since they first met. 

And he knows that Melisandre believes _he_ is Azor Ahai reborn, and Arya is Nissa Nissa come again, to temper the steel of Lightbringer. 

Jon knows all of these things in the heartbeat between Melisandre standing with a triumphant smile on her face and Melisandre plunging the sword into Arya's chest.  

Jon moves, but not quickly enough. The heel of his hand catches the witch in her shoulder, shoving her away. 

Arya doesn't scream as the red-hot steel burns her flesh. She makes no noise as the metal steams, cooling as it bathes in her blood. _Nissa_ _Nissa_ _screamed, in the legend._ Arya sways and Jon catches her, lowering her to the ground, cradling her head in his lap. 

 _Someone_ is screaming. It takes Jon a moment to realize it is him. 

"Arya, no, no, please, no, Arya--" 

She puts her fingers to where the steel has parted her flesh, touching the blade with a look of surprise on her face. Her hand reaches for him, and he presses his face against her fingers so she doesn't have to struggle. "I didn't--" her voice is faint, fading. "I didn't—know. Jon--" 

Her breath isn't a great shudder; it is a soft puff of air, and she is gone. 

Jon breaks. He breaks into more pieces than there are stars in the sky. There are no words to express this feeling, this indescribable pain as he sits in Arya's lifeblood. No words. Jon has no words, so he throws his head back and howls.  

Off in the distance, he can hear an answer. Nymeria.  

The call is picked up and echoed by her pack, until Jon imagines hundreds of wolves must be howling in pain, crying for their Arya who was always more wolf than the rest of the Starks.

There is the pounding of footsteps that seem to come from a great distance. Daenerys stands, her hands covering her mouth in shock as Mormont shoves her behind him and draws his sword.  

Protecting her. 

In front of her, protecting her, like Arya had done, only Arya had thought Jon was the one that needed protecting. Thought that he was Daenerys' Nissa Nissa. 

 _He should have protected her_. Fuck the Iron Throne and fuck the North. Jon failed to protect the one thing more dear to him than anything else. 

"Oh no," a voice cuts through the fog in Jon's mind. "Oh no, oh no, please, no no, _no!"_   

Sansa, he thinks. Sansa screams and weeps and lashes out until Clegane wraps an arm around her and drags her out of the forge. 

Jon just sits, cradling Arya. He can't move. He has been ripped limb from limb. Why would he move? What would be the point? Why does he care about a world that Arya is not in? Why would he want to save such a place with a weapon she was killed to create? 

 _Kill me,_ he thinks desperately. _Kill me now, please, how can anyone live in such pain?_  

Jon is soaked in her blood and the smell of her burnt flesh is redolent in the heat of the forge.  

He never told Arya he loved her. He never told her that her eyes were the same color as the sky before snow, or that she was more graceful than anyone he'd ever seen, or just how much he missed her. Or how he thought about her every day. That she had been the first person to make him smile after finding out he was a trueborn Targaryen. And how her laugh was more warming and filling than any meal Hot Pie could produce. He never told her, and now he never will.  

Gods. _Gods_. He hopes he meets R'hllor when he dies and can drive this fucking sword through his belly. 

The sword.  

Jon lays down Arya on the dirt floor of the forge, brushing her hair back from her pallid face and closing her eyes. _And now her watch is ended,_ is his inane thought. _She is the sword in the darkness, the light that brings the dawn._ She deserves better, but she deserved life, too, and now all he can give her is vengeance. 

It takes all of his strength to draw the sword from her body and he takes a moment, a long breath, to steady his hand. Lightbringer is a longsword, light enough for one hand, well balanced. The blade is still hot, and it glows. Not with the red-hot glow of the forge, or the warm light of a roaring fire, but with something else. A sharp brightness, like the sun glittering off of ice. Daenerys' bloodriders shield their eyes. Snowblind from Lightbringer. In the legend, Nissa Nissa's soul combined with the steel. If it's true, then Arya's soul is terrible and beautiful to behold.  

Even with the icy brightness of the sword, it is still hot. It warms Jon's hand, and he can almost imagine he holds Arya's hand in his.  

 _Warm as Nissa_ _Nissa_ _had been warm_. This is as close to holding Arya as he will ever get. 

"The Prince Who was Promised," Melisandre breathes when he looks at her. 

Two strides is all he takes before the sword is pressed to her throat, cutting through the soft gold that holds the ruby around her neck.  

 _You stole Arya from me._ "Melisandre, in the sight of gods and men, I sentence you to die." 

"Jon, lad--" Davos, it must be Davos puts a hand on Jon's arm-- 

But suddenly Jon knows what the man is going to say before he says it.  

"The words," Jon growls at Melisandre. "The ones you said to bring me to life. What are they?" 

He remembers Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion. 

Jon says the words. _The_ _last kiss, a_ _kiss of fire_. 

Jon lays the blade on Arya's chest, in case her soul is in the blade, to make the journey easier. In this moment, it does not matter if Jon is Azor Ahai or not. He believes it, because he must. _R'hllor_ _chose me. Azor_ _Ahai_ _reborn. Blood of the dragon. Fire and blood. Fire. Life. FIRE._  

He kisses Arya, fire and blood in his mouth 

and 

she _breathes_. 

 

 

Arya. Always Arya. Never Nissa Nissa. Jon rains kisses on her hair, her nose, her cheeks. _Life breath fire._  

"Jon?" 

His heart sings to hear her say his name. "Yes, I'm here, I'm here." Lightbringer falls to the earth as Jon gathers Arya to his chest, holding her close.  

"I had...the strangest dream," her voice is faint. "I dreamed you were Nissa Nissa." 

Jon swallows a sob and presses his forehead to Arya's.  

"Or was it me? Did I get stabbed?" She struggles to sit up and Jon helps her. "Jon, you're covered in blood." 

"It's yours, my lady," Mormont rumbles, still between his queen and Melisandre. 

"Oh." Arya looks sort of vaguely surprised. "Oh, it is." 

"You are Nissa Nissa reborn, and reborn again," Melisandre looks stunned. "Lightbringer is not Lightbringer without the soul of Nissa Nissa in the steel." She's right. Lightbringer doesn't shine with as much brilliance as before, and when Jon holds his hand over the blade, the warmth is weaker. Still there, still unnatural for a blade. What part of Arya is still in the sword? 

Jon sees Arya reach for Needle and he closes his hand around hers. "You can kill her later, Arya. Rest. Please." 

She looks confused. Jon remembers what it was like, to wake up knowing that you shouldn't. To remember what it is to die but not be dead. 

"Melisandre killed me," Arya says slowly. "Why would she think I was Nissa Nissa reborn, Jon?" 

He thought—the look in her eyes before she died—he thought she understood. Her hands reach up to cup his face, bloody leather gloves cold on his skin. "Jon? Why would she kill me and bring me back?" 

Jon presses his lips to Arya's neck, to the pulse fluttering in her veins. "I brought you back. I brought you back because I am Azor Ahai reborn, and I love you best of anything in this world." 

"Don't be silly, Jon," she pats his cheek. "Everyone knows that Azor Ahai reborn is Sansa, and Sandor is Lightbringer."

She presses her lips to his all the same, and Jon can taste smoke and snow.  

He kisses her, and he can taste fire and ice. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'ed, etc, etc.
> 
> I just couldn't get rid of the idea that Jon doesn't know how he feels about Arya until it's too late. it was more beautifully tragic in my head.


End file.
